The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.



There is but one thing in the universal core;
That picks at my heart like a cancerous sore.

Words fail me, it overwhelms;
To rip out my established tedium of life, threatens;

If there ever was such a thing as an eponymous bore,
Then it is punctuality, that mind-numbing chore.
In its thrall have careers been wrecked-
For want of a few minutes has destiny been checked
For was there ever was such a thing so inanely effective,
As a docked day's pay and an hour's invective?
My almighty excuses fall to perdition,
Faced with authority, plead sedition;
While whosoever on the giving end proceeds to pound,
Into that speechless brain mound upon mound,
Of decibels, of expletive sound.

Oh misery, oh mine, what then is life,
But a casserole of deadlines with a dollop of strife?
Ah, but punctuality, that effervescent bore,
But for punctuality, that taskmistress whore,
Somehow, without her, I suspect we'd be
Still swapping coconuts, instead of sipping tea.

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